reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak theOm silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself whileinhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with allthe concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow ofthe clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depthsof his being, indestructible, one with the universe.

Joy leapt in his father's heart for his son who was quick to learn,thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing up to become great wise manand priest, a prince among the Brahmans.

Bliss leapt in his mother's breast when she saw him, when she saw himwalking, when she saw him sit down and get up, Siddhartha, strong,handsome, he who was walking on slender legs, greeting her with perfectrespect.

Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans' young daughters whenSiddhartha walked through the lanes of the town with the luminousforehead, with the eye of a king, with his slim hips.

But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, theson of a Brahman. He loved Siddhartha's eye and sweet voice, he lovedhis walk and the perfect decency of his movements, he loved everythingSiddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his spirit, histranscendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling.Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy officialin charge of offerings; not a greedy merchant with magic spells; not avain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful priest; and also not adecent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, aswell did not want to become one of those, not one of those tens of